A Place Beyond The Map (2 page)

“Yes, Papa,” he said, watching as his father winked open one eye.

“Ah, but you are too young for that just yet. And besides, I’d wager other things are more important to you today. And, I might add, I expected you home much earlier, given the circumstances.”

“Yes, Papa,” Phinnegan said. “I…umm…I was held up at school.”

“Caught up in a game, then?” his father asked, a hopeful tone to his voice.

“Not exactly,” Phinnegan replied, his eyes slipping away from his father’s.

“Oh, I see.” His father pushed himself to his feet and rested a strong hand on Phinnegan’s shoulder.

“I wonder if I am doing the right thing with you. These books…really you are too
old
for fairy tales.”

“But…I like them,” Phinnegan said, a slight shrug in his shoulders as they sagged.

“I know, lad, but some day you’ll have to put down the fancies of your childhood and become a man. And a man needs good friends; he needs responsibility, respect.”

Phinnegan was silent, his eyes downcast. But the hand on his shoulder gave a reassuring squeeze.

“One day, lad…”

“Yes, sir.”

His father’s smile widened.

“Your mother will not be finished with supper for awhile yet. If you hurry, maybe you can read a new story or two.”

Phinnegan’s face brightened and he grabbed his father’s arm.

“You brought it? Where is it?” he questioned, bouncing in his excitement.

“Settle down, settle down,” his father said with a laugh. “I left it on your bed. Run along, you’ve time to open it.”

Beaming, Phinnegan gave his father a quick hug before flying from the room. As he rounded the corner to climb the stairs, he heard his mother call out to him.

“No running in the house, Phinnegan,” she scolded.

“Yes, mum,” he called back, slowing until he was out of sight and then bounding the last few steps.

In his room, he found a small package wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine lying on his bed. He had the paper off in a flash and his hands grasped a bright yellow book, its binding fresh and unblemished beneath his fingers.

The front of the book was embossed with a detailed scene of a winged woman floating high in the sky, the rays of sunshine warming her slim figure. On the spine, the silhouette of a cat stood out in gold filigree, along with the book’s author and title.

“The Yellow Fairy Book,” Phinnegan whispered, running his finger over the etched words. The book was the fourth in a collection of fairy tales from around the world. It had only just been published, and Phinnegan’s father had promised he would obtain one for his son.

      With the care that comes with an appreciation for books, Phinnegan opened the book slowly and, as was his habit, let it fall open to where it chose.

      “Story of the Emperor’s New Clothes,” he read softly to himself. And then he was lost in the tale.

CHAPTER 2

A Late Night Visitor

Phinnegan awoke suddenly, the bite of a late November night’s breeze upon his face. After gobbling his dinner, Phinnegan had rushed straight to his room to again immerse himself in the new tales contained in the Yellow Fairy Book until sleep overcame him.  This sudden chill was odd, though it did not really bother him.  Harrumphing, he pulled his blankets tighter about him.

It was then that he heard it.

The sound was faint and not one that could be called unordinary.  It seemed to be a muffled gasp or squeak, like the sound you would make if startled by a cat you knew was in the house but were surprised to find rubbing against your leg. It was not the sound itself that startled him so, his large brown eyes round and wide in the darkness, but that he should hear this sound now, in his bedroom, in the middle of the night.

It could have been his mother or father, of course, checking on their son in the middle of the night as mothers and fathers are wont to do. But as Phinnegan lay on his side, the blankets up to his ears and just his eyes peeking out, he saw that his window was open.

That window was closed when I went to bed.

Pricking his ears for the slightest sound, Phinnegan heard only the rain at first, the footsteps of each droplet pitter-pattering in the shallow puddles that formed upon the ground just outside his bedroom window. The melodic rhythm of the rain soothed his mind and he wondered if he had heard any sound at all. Glancing to his left, he saw the yellow book just where he had left it after reading for a few hours after dinner. Perhaps these stories were playing tricks with his mind.

But then he spied something else.

On the floor beneath his window, he saw the wet imprints of two smooth-soled shoes.

His breath caught in his throat. Phinnegan lay still as the dead, straining his ears against the pressing silence. When he heard the faint familiar creak of the loose floorboard just in front of his door, he shut his eyes and prayed for this to all be a dream.

Just then a second strange sound reached his ears. Even with his ears strained, it was barely audible: a timorous little melody, a lullaby so light, so airy and so fragile that to speak of its existence would be its destruction. If a sound could be from far away, but at the same time be close at hand, it could not have been more so than this melody. He felt it tug at his thoughts, pulling his fears away and rendering him light-headed. His mind felt fuzzy and warm, and as the melody assuaged away the last of his fear, he felt himself at peace. And then the sound was gone.

Phinnegan bolted upright in his bed. His heart hammering in his chest, he shook his head to rid himself of the soft, blurred feeling that the melody had left him. With the melody now gone, his mind felt sluggish. But his fear was gone, and in its place remained a wild courage, apparent even in his large brown eyes, which no longer were doe-eyed and naïve, but touched with feral twinkle.

His eyes searching, Phinnegan spied that the door to his room was ajar and beckoning. Feeling rather adventurous, he tossed the covers from his bed and crept to his door, avoiding the creaky board with unconscious effort.

The hallway beyond Phinnegan’s door was thick with darkness against the scant bit of light that entered through his open bedroom.  At first his eyes could not penetrate more than a few feet before him as he peered around the edge of his door. But as his eyes adjusted, familiar shapes began to materialize as if from a fog.

Seeing that the hallway appeared clear of any intruders, Phinnegan tiptoed through his doorway and crept to the bend in the hallway, his footsteps softened by the hall’s well-trodden runner.

Looking around the corner Phinnegan saw that the landing above the stairs was empty. Summoning his courage, he straightened and rounded the corner.

As he stood facing the stairs, the melody came to him once again. The sound wafted up the stairs like a gentle breeze, and he felt it drawing him evermore towards it.

The feral twinkle once again flashing in his eyes, he made one last glance back towards his now empty room before slinking down the stairs. He skipped the third step from the bottom - a step known to creak. Reaching the bottom, he turned his head this way and that, listening for the elusive melody.

When he turned his head to the right, in the direction of the two sitting rooms and his father’s study, the melody grew louder.

Careful to avoid the veritable minefield of creaky boards, potted plants, end tables, and other scattered furniture, he snuck through the larger of the two sitting rooms, more by the guidance of his memories than by his eyes. The music grew louder.

Phinnegan’s eyes were now well adjusted to the darkness and he could see into the shadowed corners of each room, finding them all empty. If the melody came from within the house, there was only one room left that could be its source. Just ahead of him the door to his father’s study was open. For the second time that night, a door ajar beckoned to him.

Even the music’s tonic of courage could not suppress the chill that ran up his spine. A soft glow emanated from his father’s study. It did not flicker like a candle, nor dance like the flame of a lamp. It did not waver nor falter, but was steady and haunted the doorway with an unearthly cast.

He took two small steps forward and to the left, positioning himself so as to have a glimpse through the slight opening in the doorway. At first he saw nothing save the same eerie glow. But then the intensity of the glow changed, as though it moved closer to one wall than another. The glow changed again, and then the shadow of a figure appeared on the far wall.

Phinnegan stood frozen, not daring to breath.

Someone
was in there.

The shadow moved now, and Phinnegan’s mind had cleared just enough for him to hear sounds other than the melody. First, there was a scraping sound, as if someone were dragging a heavy object across the floor. Then the scraping ceased and all was quiet once again, with the exception of the melody that continued to drift across Phinnegan’s mind.

Phinnegan shuffled forward the last few feet and stood behind the door, his face an inch from the opening. His breathing quickened and he felt his heart pound against his ribcage. More sounds came from the study, rustling of papers and the quiet “tink” of glass upon glass. He heard a soft “pop” sound and then a sound he never expected to hear.

Sniffing.

More soft pops were followed by still more sniffing. After about the sixth or seventh pop and sniff, there was a pause. A deeper sniff followed and then a quiet sigh of pleasure.

At last, the curious sounds getting the better of him, Phinnegan peeked around the door.

He never expected the sight that greeted him.

The room was bright compared to the rest of the house, and sitting on his father’s desk was the source of that light. A small sphere, which Phinnegan assumed had to be some kind of miniature oil lamp, rested there amongst the strewn papers and bathed the entire room in a white-blue light. Phinnegan had never seen a lamp like this: a solid glass orb, with no discernable light source.  No flame flickered within, and even if there was, no air could have reached it.

But the light was not the half of it.

Standing atop his father’s heavy oaken chair was a man. Or at least Phinnegan thought it was a man, at first. But as Phinnegan watched, he noticed that he was not large enough to be a man at all, though he did not appear to be a child.

The man, or person, or whatever he was, had not yet noticed Phinnegan. He did not look in Phinnegan’s direction at all, but had his attention fixed on an object in his hands. Leaning his head further into the room to get a better look, Phinnegan momentarily lost his balance, brushing against the door and causing a loud creak. Startled, he snapped his head back, hoping he had been quick enough to escape the small person’s attention.

Phinnegan stood in silence for what felt like several minutes - though surely was only a half of one - holding his breath and daring not to make a sound lest he give himself away. After he began to breathe again, he crept back the few steps that he had just retreated and stood once again next to the door. Careful not to touch the door and create yet another squeak, Phinnegain ventured another peek.

The intruder gave no outward sign indicating that he had paid the creak any mind, for he stood just as he had before, still observing the item he held in his hands. He was hunched over, turning the object of his attention over and over in his hands.

Even with the light, Phinnegan could not see the intruder very well, but there was something odd about him. His hair appeared light, but Phinnegan could not discern its color, for the glowing orb upon the desk was nearer his feet than his head and cast little light up towards his face. His manner of dress was also very peculiar. Phinnegan expected that the roguish types who would break and enter into a person’s home would be dressed in common clothes, rough-spun wool or coarse linen. But this man wore trousers of a lush ivy-green, tight-fitting through the thigh and looser near the ankle. His arms were bare, but his torso bore a vest of the same shade of green, an indiscernible pattern worked upon it in silver.